Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“I have to get back.” His words are thick and deep before he clears his throat. “And you have to clean the chicken coop.”
I open my eyes when his touch vanishes. He jackknives to sitting, running his hands through his hair.
Did he feel what I felt? Even a little? Or am I the naive young woman still crushing on Milo Odell as hard as I did as a young girl? I can’t sort through my emotions or get a handle on this. It’s a lonely vulnerability. I have a long year of school left before I can escape. Really escape.
A long year of yearning for a man who has been promised to another woman. A long year of feeling trapped, owned by a “father” who doesn’t love me.
And when I think our little bubble a few seconds ago was all in my head, Milo rests his hand on my leg, just below my knee. He doesn’t look at me, just at his hand on my leg.
I wait.
I’d wait forever if he’d keep his hand on me.
Ever so slowly, he slides his hand down my leg to my ankle.
Pause.
My foot.
Pause.
The calloused pads of his fingers tickle my sensitive skin, but I don’t flinch. I’ll do anything to keep from spoiling this moment and losing his touch.
“Last one to the dock has to clean out Ranger’s stall,” he says, a breath before diving back into the pond and sprinting to the other side.
I take my sweet time. Ranger’s stall is close to Milo’s living quarters. I’ll happily clean it if it means being closer to Milo.
6
THE END OF INNOCENCE
It’s as if that day at the pond never happened.
I clean the coops.
No Milo.
I clean Ranger’s stall.
No Milo.
He’s intentionally avoiding me.
Until today.
Baking a pecan pie (Fletcher has acres of pecan trees), I use it as an excuse to visit Milo. I take extra time curling my hair. A little makeup. A dab of soft floral perfume. And a cute pink sundress with boots. It’s been a while since I’ve channeled my inner Ruthie with an airy dress and cowboy boots.
I knock twice on Milo’s door before opening it.
“Who’s that?” a woman says from his sofa as she stuffs her breasts back into her bra, dragging the white straps up her slender, tan arms.
Milo eyes me, but he doesn’t say anything at first, quickly averting his gaze while standing in front of the woman. He’s only wearing a pair of jeans. Plucking his shirt from the floor, he jerks it over his head while mumbling, “What’s up, Indie?”
To keep from losing it, I focus on the pie. Its roasted nuttiness and cinnamon—nope. Not going to focus on cinnamon. Maybe warm notes of sweet vanilla and nutmeg. I bet the buttery crust melts in your mouth.
But I have a feeling Milo already had something else melting in his mouth.
Now, all I taste is acid in my throat, and all I smell is cheap hairspray from her big hair.
While I stare at the pie, the woman adjusts her dress, tugging it up her body while she stands and plasters on a smile like I didn’t just see her boobs.
I’m … speechless. And heartbroken.
It was just me. That day at the pond, it was all me. I’m so stupid.
Young.
Naive.
“I made a pecan pie.” My voice quivers along with my hands while I quickly set the pie on his counter. “That’s all. Sorry to uh … interrupt.”
“Indie …”
I scamper out the door, slamming it shut behind me. My legs take long, rapid strides from the gravel to the blacktop drive up toward the house.
“Indie?” Milo chases me.
I gulp down my stupid … young … presumptuous emotions and turn with my chin up and the fakest, bravest face I can find.
Milo rests a hand on one hip and drops his chin, staring at his boots. “I’m sorry. I should have locked the door.”
He thinks I’m mad because he didn’t lock the door? Okay … not even close. I don’t know how to respond without lying or admitting how delusional I’ve been since that day at the pond. So I don’t say a word.
Milo eyes me and exhales through his teeth. “My life is really fucking complicated. I’m sorry.”
Sorry? Sorry that his life is complicated? Or is it another apology for not locking the door? Too bad I don’t have a voice or a shred of confidence to offer up a single verbal response. So I nod and let him decide what he thinks my nod means.
The weird part? For a few seconds, I feel sorry for Jolene. Awful, mean, vengeful Jolene. The man who has agreed to marry her was enjoying another woman’s breasts. Does Jolene care? Who knows? Maybe she’s screwing other guys in college. I don’t know if she and Milo have officially discussed this marriage. Has there been a formal proposal? Or is this truly an arranged marriage that doesn’t involve them until the wedding day when they have to go through the motions of exchanging vows and … ugh … it makes me nauseous. They’re going to have sex on their wedding night. And other nights. They’re going to make babies.